Kurtz, Katherine - King Kelson 04 - King Kelson's Bride

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Arjenol and a younger brother of its duke, Mahael, who was

seated across from him. The latter was one of the regents of

Torenth, and both men were kin by marriage to the woman

who had summoned them to this meeting at domed

Torenthály, country seat of Torenth's kings.

The Princess Morag Furstána, widowed sister of the late

King Wencit of Torenth, was standing in the opening of a

long, brass-trellised window that looked westward across

rolling fields, lush and verdant in the brightness of a sultry

June afternoon. Co-regent with Mahael, she was also the

mother of the previous king, of the said Liam-Lajos, who

was the present king, and of Prince Ronal Rurik, the ten-

year-old heir presumptive.

“If you are telling me that Liam-Lajos soon must wed, I

think it premature,” she said quietly, hooking the be-ringed

fingers of one hand through the brass grillwork.

“Premature?” said Teymuraz. “He is fourteen, two

months into his majority. And the precarious nature of his

situation does put a certain urgency on the matter.”

She turned to look at him. The dappled sunlight filtering

through the pierced brass set aglow the gauzy folds of veil

and trailing sleeve and touched with fire the bands of gold

think he alludes to four more years of his own regency, if it

were necessary for Liam-Lajos to give way to Ronal Rurik.

We are all of us aware that Mahael harbors no ambition of

his own regarding the throne.”

Mahael feigned languid interest in a massive seal ring that

he wore on his left forefinger, dark eyes heavy-lidded as his

thumb absently caressed the design cut into the murky

bloodstone.

“I would not see either of my nephews come to harm,” he

said neutrally, “but if any had a right to wield the might of

Furstán after them, it would be myself.”

“No one disputes either part of that statement,” Morag

said briskly, coming to sit between them. “It is an unnatural

mother who does not wish success for her sons; but not

having seen my elder one for several years, I cannot, as

regent, speak for his readiness to rule this kingdom. We do

not know how he may have been tainted by contact with the

court of Gwynedd. He has had his training from Duke Nigel

Haldane, who has ever been a fierce and loyal advocate for

Gwynedd's interests—which rarely coincide with Torenth's

interests. And I like it not that, as a condition of his return,

we must en-

quickly from the backlash of shocked grief and outrage—

though without a shred of evidence—but it could not be

denied that two of those present had greatly benefited by the

boy's death, simply resuming their regency of the previous

four years. That one of those regents was the boy's mother

had not stopped speculation in some quarters.

The Princess Morag ignored the comment, tossing her

head with a musical chiming of tiny golden bells at ears and

throat, and retrieved the wine she had abandoned earlier. The

stemmed goblet was of delicate green Vezairi glass, almost

invisible against the rich moss-green of the brocade table

covering. The wine was the color of blood.

“Teymuraz, you spoke of the Haldane's intention to wed,”

she said, holding the glass to the light after she had sipped

from it. “Have you heard aught regarding whom he might

choose?”

Inclining his head, Teymuraz said, “I have cause to

wonder whether he might yet persuade the Nabila Rothana to

marry him. She and her young son are reported to be visiting

Rhemuth; no one knows why.”

Mahael flicked his long braid back over his shoulder with

a dismissive gesture and leaned forward to pour himself

another glass of wine.

aren't they? And Haldanes, too.”

“Surely not of a sort we need worry about overmuch,”

Teymuraz said, with a disparaging wave of his hand.

“And why not?” Morag asked.

Teymuraz shrugged. “Their father was Duke Richard

Haldane, uncle to Queen Jehana's late husband—hardly a

contender so far as Haldane powers are concerned. Besides,

the elder girl is soon to make a Mearan match, arranged by

Kelson himself—and 'tis said that the younger is all but

betrothed to Prince Cuan of Howicce.”

“Then, it seems the Haldane demoiselles are safely out of

the equation,” Morag said. “That takes us back to the Orsal's

daughters—but surely they're too young.”

“The eldest isn't,” Mahael remarked. “She's called Rezza

Elisabet.” On his lips, the name carried a sibilant frisson that

caused both his companions to glance at him sharply, though

for different reasons. Teymuraz quickly schooled himself to

a more neutral deference before his elder brother.

“I thought,” said Morag, “that we were talking about a

bride for Kelson.”

“Oh, we are,” Mahael agreed. “But the King of Gwynedd

is not alone in his quest for a rich and nubile bride.” He

Morag smiled mirthlessly and shook her head, pushing

back a fold of her purple veil. “The poor girl hasn't a

chance—or the boy. However, this still leaves us with the

question of why Jehana has spent the winter at the Orsal's

court. Do you suppose she is seeking a bride for her son

among the Orsal's daughters?”

Mahael shrugged. “Alas for my brother, I think it possible.

And from a Torenthi perspective, it is a far less dangerous

match than many being proposed—though marrying into the

von Horthy line almost guarantees an heir within a year, if

the Haldane does his duty; they are notoriously good

breeders. His council would approve of that. Nor would they

object to the fact that she is also wealthy and not overly

clever.”

“I object to neither, in the bedchamber,” said Teymuraz.

He sighed resignedly. “Ah, sweet Elisabet, thou luscious and

succulent peach, ripe for plucking. Fortunate the man who

claims thy maidenhead!”

“We must find wives for both of you!” Morag muttered.

“Either that, or a better quality of serving maids. Now, may

we please return to the reason I summoned you here?”

Mahael cast an admonitory but indulgent glance at his

younger brother, then returned his attention to Morag.

to the Orsal s court to assist in the nuptial preparations for her

kinswoman. Have you considered the very unpleasant

possibility that she might be arranging for two Haldane

weddings in Meara?”

Mahael gazed at Teymuraz appraisingly, slowly nodding

as he leaned back in his chair. “A possibility I had not,

indeed, considered, my brother—and unpleasant, to be sure.”

“What possibility?' Morag demanded.

Mahael returned his attention to their sister-in-law.

“We have alluded to the upcoming nuptials of Araxie

Haldane's sister, the Princess Richelle, but without taking

adequate note of her bridegroom's identity. His name is

Brecon Ramsay, and he has a sister also ripe for marriage.

Perhaps you will now understand why I regard this

possibility as unpleasant.”

“Ramsay,” Morag repeated, going very still. “Reacquaint

me with the particulars. I seem to recall a Ramsay marrying

into the old Mearan line....”

“Indeed,” Mahael said with a grim smile. “About a

century ago, one Edward Ramsay, a younger son of the Earl

of Cloome, took to wife the fair Magrette, youngest daughter

“Interesting,” Morag said. “However, I have never heard

that the Ramsays entertained any designs on the throne.”

“They don't,” Teymuraz chimed in. “And the reason

they've survived is probably because they've remained

outside subsequent dynastic wranglings of the Mearan royal

house.”

“And with the more senior lines extinguished,” Mahael

went on conspiratorially, “those who continue fighting for

Mearan independence may not long allow this last branch of

the Mearan line to remain quietly on the sidelines. It is bad

enough that Brecon, the heir to their last hope of a prince of

their own, is set to marry Richelle Haldane, Malcolm

Haldane's granddaughter. A marriage between Kelson and

Brecon's sister would strike a double blow at any further

thought of Mearan independence.”

“I see,” Morag said, thoughtful as she turned her

wineglass in her fingers. “Are there any other siblings?”

“One more brother, conveniently in holy orders,” Mahael

replied. “With stability in Meara at last, Kelson could turn

his full energies toward Torenth—and toward any thought

you might entertain of recovering the Festillic legacy for

gpp

mountain eyrie, discussing the same potential match being

examined with such wariness in Torenth—though as friends

of Kelson Haldane, not his mortal enemies.

“He has entered holy orders since we last discussed this

match,” said Laran ap Pardyce, the physician among them,

consulting a list. “He is now Brother Christophle—

affirmation of a vocation recognized in childhood. They say

he studies for the priesthood.”

A heavy sigh drew all eyes in the direction of Bishop

Denis Arilan, a man well-qualified to speak regarding

priesthood, for he had been the first of their race in nearly

two hundred years to be successfully ordained a priest—and

had seen others fail and die for their presumption. With an

easing of the political climate in Gwynedd, and having risen

to the episcopate, he secretly had begun ordaining other

Deryni priests— and there was a second bishop come to his

priestly status without Arilan's help—but Denis Arilan was

still the only cleric to sit on the Council since the time of

Camber himself.

“Need I point out that the priesthood has been no bar to

Mearan pretensions in the past?” he asked. “Witness the

Prince-Bishop Judhael, whom Kelson finally had to execute.

Furthermore, I think the king would be very wary of another

motivation beyond mere motherly ambition, to see her

daughter make this particular match.”

“Ah, that girl!” Vivienne exclaimed, throwing up her

hands. “Willful, even as a child!”

Dark-eyed Sofiana, sovereign princess in her own land of

Andelon, cast a faintly amused glance at the dismayed Sion.

“You must forgive Vivienne,” she said, not unkindly. “It

was something of a scandal at the time. I well remember the

gossip in my father's hall. Oksana Ramsay is distant kin to

Vivienne's late husband, and also to the Hort of Orsal's line.

That descent, while noble, was unlikely to attract a royal

match, but nonetheless she set her sights on first Brion and

then Nigel Haldane. Unfortunately, both princes chose

others. She has never forgotten the slight.”

Sion nodded. Himself an under-chancellor to the royal

House of Llannedd, he was currently dealing with another

headstrong young woman at home: the Princess Gwenlian,

half-sister to the King of Llannedd, unmarried and high-

spirited, who had already been discussed and not yet

discarded as a potential bride for Kelson.

“I quite understand, now that you've explained,” he said.

“But she did marry well enough.”

“Let's move on,” said blind Barrett de Laney, the

Council's second coadjutor. “We've discussed this match

before. Laran, who is our next candidate?”

Laran ap Pardyce, serving as recorder for the proceeding,

consulted the parchment sheet before him, ticking off another

name. “Kelson's other cousin, Araxie Haldane,” he

announced.

Sion looked up sharply, lips pursing in a silent whistle,

but before he could speak, Vivienne shook her grey head.

“I've said it before: a dangerous match,” she declared.

“Double-Haldane blood. Impossible to predict what the

children would be like.”

Sion cleared his throat, shrugging slightly as all eyes

turned toward him.

“Court gossip in Llannedd has it that, any day now, an

official announcement will be made of a betrothal between

the Princess Araxie and Prince Cuan of Howicce.”

“An interesting notion,” Barrett said, as several of the

others murmured among themselves. “Harmless enough,

politically. Rather a waste of Haldane blood, however—

especially if, as we now suspect, the Haldane gifts may be

some form of Deryni inheritance. Who knows what else

might surface in the children of such a union?”

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pyggArjenolandayoungerbrotherofitsduke,Mahael,whowasseatedacrossfromhim.ThelatterwasoneoftheregentsofTorenth,andbothmenwerekinbymarriagetothewomanwhohadsummonedthemtothismeetingatdomedTorenthály,countryseatofTorenth'skings.ThePrincessMoragFurstána,widowedsisterofthelateKingWencitofTorenth,wasstandin...

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Kurtz, Katherine - King Kelson 04 - King Kelson's Bride

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